


This Year's Love

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Something for the holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8719573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: "There is a particular safe house I like to retire to around the holidays, up the coast in Maine. I usually prefer to stay there by myself but this year I could use some company and—," he pauses briefly to gather his thoughts, to find the right words, "I would like that company to be you."





	1. Some Advice

**Author's Note:**

> My first (more or less) Christmas fic. Hope you enjoy. Kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated.

Three days.

She can hardly believe it. She's not sure how another year has passed her by like it did, the days dragging her along until suddenly December had arrived and with it the holidays, the restlessness, the loneliness. Her apartment still doesn't feel like a home, she spends most of her time at work now, stays long after all her colleagues have left the premises. Because it keeps her mind busy and distracted. Because she had hoped that things would be a little easier by now.

Three days till Christmas.

It's another evening at the office, the atmosphere almost peaceful now, the halls quiet. She busies herself with files she has long neglected, records that aren't time-sensitive, dry government work she has postponed until the last minute.

When she hears the elevator doors open, she pauses.

Determined steps move into her direction, she wonders if someone has forgotten their wallet or keys, if someone will order her to finally leave her desk behind and get some rest.

When he appears in the doorframe, she startles.

"Hello, Lizzie."

* * *

She hadn't expected him back so soon. The last time she had spoken to him he had been conducting business in Cuba, a quick check-in call to tell her he had arrived safely, though she still wasn't sure at which point these calls had become a habit, when exactly she had started to anticipate them.

He looks good, she thinks, a bit too tan for the cruel Northeast winter perhaps, but good.

"I'm sorry for barging in like this unannounced. I didn't mean to scare you," he says, his voice apologetic and kind. "I thought you might like some coffee."

He places the two cups he's holding on her desk and removes his fedora. The manners of a gentleman.

"May I?" he inquires calmly, points at the empty chair across from hers.

"You usually don't ask, Red," she teases, follows up with a quick smile to rid the conversation of any impending awkwardness. It's quite simple, really. She's happy to see him.

He unbuttons his coat and sits down, leaves his scarf loosely tied around his neck. His movements appear somewhat fidgety, and she watches as he balances his hat on his knee before changing his mind again and holding on to it instead. The criminal mastermind, she thinks, seems awfully nervous.

She picks up the cup he brought her and takes a sip, waits for the steaming liquid to warm her insides.

"This is really good," she says and licks her lips, lets the bitterness linger on her tongue.

He nods absentmindedly, his eyes fixated on the files spread out in front of him. For a moment she expects him to pick one up and talk about a case, but he remains perfectly still. Something is different and she can't quite put her finger on it.

"How are you, Lizzie?" he finally asks.

It's a complicated question these days and she's not sure she is ready for an honest answer.

"I'm doing alright. Work is keeping me busy." It's only a small part of the truth but she'd much rather talk about him. "How was your meeting last week?"

"Pardon?"

"Your meeting? In Havanna?"

"Right, yes. Not as fruitful as I had hoped, unfortunately, but the cigars were marvelous."

She waits for him to elaborate, waits for another one of his colorful stories that usually accompany his returns, but there's a silence that stretches between them now, it's not uncomfortable and yet there has to be more to his visit, she suspects. There has to be an actual reason he walked into her office at this hour.

"Red?"

"Yes?"

"Are you okay? You seem preoccupied."

"What exactly makes you say that?" he responds, a hint of challenge in his voice.

"Well, you haven't touched your coffee since you've placed it on my desk."

"I was waiting for it to cool down."

"You've been running your fingers back and forth over the brim of your hat for about five minutes now."

"It's got such a wonderful texture-"

"You haven't really looked at me once since you came in."

Ever the profiler.

There's no comeback, just a defeated shake of his head as he raises his gaze to meet hers.

A soft chuckle escapes him.

"You're right. I did come here with an intention."

"Which was?"

"To ask you something."

"And what did you want to ask me, Red?"

He isn't making this easy. She thinks they will still be sitting here in the morning if the conversation continues at this pace.

He takes a deep breath and she ponders why this is so difficult for him, prepares herself for the worst.

"I was wondering if you would like to spend Christmas with me."

Oh.

She had braced herself for a great many things. She had braced herself for a dangerous enemy, for news of him leaving again, for another mole infiltrating the task force.

She hadn't braced herself for _this_.

"You want me to spend Christmas with you?"

He nods.

"There is a particular safe house I like to retire to around the holidays, up the coast in Maine. I usually prefer to stay there by myself but this year I could use some company and—," he pauses briefly to gather his thoughts, to find the right words, "I would like that company to be you."

She doesn't know what to say, listens to him continue.

"I'm planning on leaving tomorrow. I realize this is very short notice but I hope you at least consider my offer. The views are breathtaking, Lizzie. I mean the sunrise especially is—" He stops himself then, doesn't want to ramble on, wants to give her space to make her own decision.

As he stands and straightens his coat, he finally looks at her with that familiar intensity, and she feels warm suddenly, her breath caught in her throat.

Before he reaches the door, he turns around once more.

"Please forgive me if I've appeared presumptuous. If you have any other plans, forget I even mentioned it." The faintest smile flashes across his lips. "Goodnight, Lizzie."

* * *

It's almost midnight when his phone rings.

"Lizzie."

"Did I wake you?"

"No. In fact, I was awaiting a phone call."

"And? Was it worth the wait?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"The reason for your call."

He leans back in his armchair, finds a more comfortable position.

"I'm calling to give you some advice, Red."

"And what would that be?"

"Next time you ask me something, you might want to give me a chance to respond before leaving."

He can almost picture her charmingly smug expression, wishes he could see it in person.

"That's a good point. I promise to do better next time." He pauses for a moment, swirls his drink back and forth. "So?"

"So what?"

"What's your response?"

He thinks she's enjoying this a bit too much. He thinks he's more anxious than he'd like to admit.

He can hear her move on the other end, presses the phone closer to his ear. Her answer is beautifully casual.

"How many sweaters should I pack?"


	2. This Will Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos and comments- they make my day!

She could get used to traveling like this.

She had almost forgotten how luxurious his jet was, how his standards are so very different from her own, and now she's sitting across from him in a broad leather seat, the world flying by somewhere far below as she looks out the window, and she thinks she's made the right choice. She thinks she's so glad he asked.

"Penny for your thoughts, Lizzie."

She almost flinches when she hears his voice, her mind so completely lost in thought.

"Oh, they're hardly worth a penny," she responds quickly, turns her head toward him.

"I very much doubt that."

She offers him a smile, wonders how he manages to turn fleeting phrases into sincere declarations like this, how he manages to make her feel this cherished.

"I was just thinking how nice it must be."

"How nice what must be?"

"To have a jet like this at your disposal. The ability to simply pick a destination and take off."

He's feeling just a bit daring now, willing to indulge her.

"Next time, you pick the destination and we'll go."

_Next time_. She likes the thought, likes the way he says it. A plan for the future.

"Okay."

He nods at her, takes a sip from his drink.

"May I ask you something, Lizzie?"

She raises her eyebrows in silent confirmation, files away these small insecurities he seems to reveal around her for future reference. His need for permission, as if he fears the end of the exchange. As if he can't trust the fact that she might be enjoying this, too.

"Why did you accept my invitation?"

She can't help but remember his demeanor in her office, his maneuvers of evasion to her questions.

"Because the leg room in economy is terrible."

His expression is all amusement and affection, she has taken a lesson or two from him, he knows, appreciates the banter in their conversations these days.

"Was that the decisive factor?"

"Not exactly, no."

The decisive factor was rather selfish, really. A longing to have him to herself once more, time and memories shared just between the two of them, the on-the-run dynamic she had been missing but that she would never ask for.

"Why did you agree then?"

She owes him honesty. Something to erase his uncertainties.

"Because I miss spending time with you."

She wishes she could capture the exact way he was looking at her now, tries to memorize it before he regains his composure, before he hides his vulnerability under his nonchalant mask. She's witnessed the transformation so frequently, wishes he would just accept her admission, _I care about you_ , and she didn't want to make this uncomfortable for him.

"I think I'll try to sleep for a little bit before we land," she says to offer him a distraction, reclines and loosens her seat belt a few inches.

"Would you like a blanket?" he asks, but she shakes her head, reaches over to the seat next to her and picks up his coat, feels his gaze follow her every move as she pulls it around her and practically hides underneath it. A strange intimacy settles between them, the wool tickling her skin, a hint of his cologne lingering near her.

"I think this will do."

* * *

_Because I miss spending time with you._

He repeats the words over and over, lets them surround him with their significance and implications. She couldn't fully understand what they mean to him, maybe that's for the better, but he savors them nonetheless, is grateful for her candor.

He watches her sleeping form, its steady rise and fall and her relaxed features, no sign of the sadness and melancholia he notices at times. It's why he wanted her by his side this year, to take her mind off unpleasant thoughts, to prove to her she's not alone, never will be. An alternative to the reclusion she has trapped herself in during these past months.

He gets up and moves toward her seat, kneels down in front of her. Strands of hair have fallen over her face and he wants to brush them away but stops himself, carefully rests his hand on her shoulder instead. His words are just loud enough.

"Lizzie, time to wake up."

She stirs for a moment, subconsciously nestles deeper into his coat and looks back at him with drowsy eyes, he thinks it's the most endearing sight, and she sits up slowly trying to fully gain consciousness.

"We're here?"

"We'll be landing shortly."

He rises to prepare everything for their arrival before taking his seat across from her again.

Her appearance is slightly disheveled now and he remembers the mornings during their escape, the mornings when he would get to see her before breakfast, everything just a bit incomplete, her hair just a bit messy, when he would try his best to keep her spirits up despite the circumstances, when they would both let their guard down for a few minutes and pretend that their situation wasn't a dire one. That maybe, just maybe, their names wouldn't appear on the screen if they turned on the news.

He wonders if she ever thinks about those weeks, and in what context. He wonders what role he plays in her memories.

"Penny for your thoughts, Red."

He shifts then, realizes he must have been staring.

"They're hardly worth that much," he tells her, earns another smile as the plane touches down on the runway.

When they finally come to a full stop, he gets up and gathers their bags, moves them to the front of the plane and urges her to follow him. He gives the pilot a signal to open the door for their exit and briefly looks down the aisle once more, notices his coat still discarded on her seat.

As she sets foot on the staircase, she feels his hand on her lower arm.

"Lizzie, wait."

She turns to face him and he steps closer, reaches around her and lets the coat settle on her shoulders, turns up the collar to shield her from the icy wind.

"I think this will do," he says, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Now, are you ready?"


	3. I Want To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and leaving comments and kudos. Christmas is approaching quickly for Red and Liz (and all of us). Enjoy!

The drive from the airport flies by quickly. They make their way through the woody countryside, pass small coastal towns and historic bridges, and she can't avert her gaze from the world outside, such different sights than the city views she has grown accustomed to. She doesn't notice how he observes her profile every now and then, how the picturesque scenery doesn't seem all that interesting to him. She doesn't notice how he moves his hand closer to hers, that pull between them so very palpable, how he lifts his fingers and then suddenly recedes in a moment of reflection, his courage gone and the physical distance reestablished. She doesn't notice the self-deprecating shake of his head as he turns away from her and finally looks out the window to find the town sign greeting him from across the road.

He can't believe she is actually here with him. A place like home.

"Welcome to Stonington, Lizzie."

* * *

She is standing in the middle of the guest room listening to the waves crash against the bay, breathing in the fresh ocean air streaming in from outside.

They had arrived roughly two hours ago. He had shown her around the house, had carried her bag upstairs to her room, always the polite and helpful host she knew he would be, and had left after a few moments to give her a chance to unpack and freshen up. Now, with her clothes neatly put away in the spacious closet and her body still warm from the shower, she can fully appreciate just how _right_ it feels to be here, how much she is looking forward to spending the following days with him.

There's a knock coming from behind her and she turns to find him standing in the doorway.

"Would you care to join me for some hot chocolate downstairs?"

"I'd love to," she tells him, can't really think of a more perfect beginning to their vacation.

She follows him into the kitchen and sits down at the small dinner table, just big enough for the two of them, and he places a mug in front of her and joins her with his own. She carefully takes her first sip and quickly wonders if there is anything he can't do. Even his hot chocolate is extraordinary.

"It's nutmeg," he says when he sees her curious expression.

"Sorry?"

"You looked as if you were trying to identify the secret ingredient. It's nutmeg."

"I need to try that next time," she responds with a smile. "This trip has already been worth it."

"I would hope so. Do you like your room, Lizzie?"

"I do. It's wonderful. The entire house is, really. How exactly did you end up with it?"

"I used to spend a lot of time in this area when I was younger. It's a marvelous place for someone like me, someone who finds pleasure in sailing and the sea—"

"Captain of a ship," she quickly interrupts, recalls their conversation from her time on the run.

"Captain of a ship, yes. I would linger near the harbor, talk to the fishermen, befriend some of the locals. And then eventually I came across this estate and was lucky enough to be able to afford it."

She could listen to him for hours, loves it when he shares these stories with her. It's her favorite thing.

"Everything moves a bit slower up here," he continues. "Helps to revitalize the mind, I have found. Then I started spending Christmas here a couple of years ago because it granted me some isolation. You have read my file so I'm sure you can imagine…"

He doesn't finish his thought, stops himself from going to a place in his mind that is safely locked away. She notices the sudden change in his demeanor and she doesn't want to pry, understands how the memory must be a painful one even if she doesn't know the details. There are no Christmas decorations anywhere around them, no tree. She thinks she knows why.

"I'm sorry, Lizzie, I didn't mean to ruin the mood."

"You didn't, Red. Of course you didn't." She reaches for his hand across the table, squeezes it gently. It's the least she can do. "I'm not in the holiday spirit this year either."

"May I ask why that is?"

She looks down at her mug, feels oddly self-conscious now. She doesn't want to sound needy.

"I think it's because Christmas is supposed to be about family and I don't really have that anymore."

There's a physical ache that goes through him. There's a million things he could say, a million words he could repeat back to her. _You have me_ and _if you are in need_ and _why not us_ and _when I look at you,_ but nothing would suffice. He knows that, too. But he wants her to be happy, wants to do this right. Something for her to cherish, to remember, something that will make the cruel thoughts disappear, a bit of healing. He can't bear to see her sad.

"Lizzie?"

"Yeah?"

He gets up from his chair then, moves over to her side and holds out his hand for her to take.

"Let's go find ourselves a tree."

* * *

"So you're saying these are the best lobster rolls in the country?"

He grabs two large paper bags while he pushes some bills across the counter, urges the vendor to keep the change.

"I'm not just _saying_ it, I know for a fact. Trust me on this, Lizzie. Have my food choices ever disappointed you?"

"Well, I do still think about Chewie's pecan pie, so I suppose not."

"Precisely. Heed my advice. You don't have to be the person who makes the best pecan pie or the best lobster rolls. The key is to know the people who do."

"I think I read that in a fortune cookie once."

He squints his eyes at her out of mock indignation and leads her out of the market. They have gathered all the ingredients for their dinner, a bottle of wine, some vegetables to accompany the rolls, and he thinks he could make grocery shopping with her a habit. He thinks this all feels pleasantly, brilliantly domestic.

"So where are we going to get a tree, Red?" she asks him as they walk down the street back toward the house.

"It turns out we won't be going anywhere. The tree will be coming to us."

"How did you manage that?"

"I called in a favor."

"And?"

"And the tree should be waiting for us when we get back."

It's one of the many things about him that will never cease to amaze her. How he seems to know exactly the right people at exactly the right time, their willingness to help him, the seeming ease with which he goes through life. The person he allows himself to be with her in these moments.

"We get to decorate it?"

He looks at her, lets the words linger between them. _We get to_.

"Yes, if you want to."

He shouldn't have worried about this trip. There was never any need, he realizes. She makes it so very easy.

"I want to."

* * *

"What do you think?"

"I think that when I told you we were going to make a great team, I was right."

She can't help the laugh that escapes her, his response so typically unexpected.

"Who could have guessed it would apply to Christmas tree decorating as well."

"Who indeed." He observes her proud expression, savors the sight. "I think we did a fantastic job, Lizzie."

"Me too."

They had spent the evening preparing dinner together, had shared a bottle of wine over lobster rolls and chowder, engaged in anecdotes from their childhoods and past holidays, before they had turned their attention towards the tree still waiting for them in the hall.

She couldn't have imagined just how restorative all of this would be, how her pulse now quickens in his company, how a happy outcome to the year was finally within her grasp.

"What's the plan for tomorrow?" she inquires as they stand in front of the tree, its lights now illuminating the room. "What do you usually do?"

"Well, usually I stop for coffee and pastries at the local bakery in the morning."

"That does sound like something you would do," she notes teasingly.

"And then I usually wander around town, spend some time by the bay, watch the boats come in… I realize how enthralling all of this must sound to you, Lizzie, but I assure you-"

"It sounds perfect."

His smile is all joy and wonder.

"You're more than welcome to join me then."

She nods, simply stares at him for a moment, watches as his gaze shifts toward her lips for a fleeting instant.

"I think I'm going to get some sleep," she says quietly. "I want to be well-rested for all our walking tomorrow."

It's intuitive, the way she leans in, the way she kisses his cheek, the way his hand briefly moves to her waist and the way his eyes close at the contact.

"Goodnight."

Just before she reaches the hall, she turns around once more.

"Red?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for bringing me here."

"You're welcome, Lizzie."

He listens to her ascend the stairs, hears her close the door to the guest room.

"You're welcome," he repeats to himself, takes a final look at the tree in front of him.

Maybe things really could be different this year.


	4. Let Your Heart Be Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is here! Thanks for all the kudos and comments- they really make my day. Enjoy and happy holidays!

"I'm telling you, Lizzie, the sweater was an abomination. But I had promised her to wear it."

"And did you?"

"I'm a man of my word."

"And what happened then?"

"Then I decided that perhaps suits were a much better fit for me." He pauses to finish his coffee. "My aunt was an extraordinary woman but a talent for knitting she had not."

They have been spending the morning in a small bakery, exchanging tales about questionable gifts and memorable holidays, sharing a selection of pastries and cookies. She can't remember the last time she's laughed this much during the early morning hours, but his exaggerated storytelling is delightful entertainment and she loves to see him relaxed.

"So, are you ready for our walk?" he asks and receives a nod in response. He gets up and helps her put on her coat, takes the last scone off the plate, breaks it in the middle and hands her one half. "Travel supply," he explains a bit too seriously. "Best to be prepared."

They walk down Main Street toward the harbor and he asks her about her favorite Christmas, her most treasured memories. It's easy suddenly, these conversations, as if they have left the suspicion and worry behind. She hasn't thought about work once during this trip, she realizes, a surprise maybe, given the man beside her, but she's always enjoyed their private moments the most, the time spent with him far away from the FBI. The talks that would be of no use to them. The answers that can't be found in a file.

They wander through the streets for hours, stop by the local bookstore to compare their literary preferences, chat with the fishermen docking their boats in the bay. When they arrive back at the house in the early afternoon, he notices her light shiver, offers to make her some tea to fight off the cold. It's these small things most people will never get to experience, she thinks, these kind gestures he only saves for her.

"I have a proposition," he begins as he puts the mug in front of her. "I was wondering if you would join me for dinner again. I hear Christmas Eve is best spent with someone you care about."

She's very much focused on the last words, isn't sure she heard him correctly.

"I have to prepare a few things but we could meet down here in about three hours. If you're not too tired of my company yet."

She isn't. Of course she isn't.

"That sounds lovely," she says. Tries to keep her response casual.

When she goes up to the guest room minutes later, she checks her closet, puts a dress and a package on the bed.

Her heart is beating just a bit too fast suddenly.

* * *

"Do you always cook in a tuxedo?"

He is putting the finishing touches to the plates arranged on the counter when her voice interrupts him.

"Only on special occasions," he responds sincerely and puts down the spatula, slowly turns around.

Well.

It's not the first time he has seen her in a dress.

That's not what leaves him speechless.

It's the fact that this dress was meant specifically for _him_.

It's the realization that makes all the difference, that makes it difficult to breathe.

"You look beautiful," he manages, finds himself spellbound at the sight of her.

She smiles at the compliment and looks around the room, notices the elegant setting, the flickering candles.

"Take a seat, please. Dinner will be ready in a moment."

He still seems taken aback by her appearance, struggling to act nonchalant, and she'll file it away as a small victory. She watches as he fills their glasses with wine, as he places a variety of dishes in the middle of the table and finally sits down across from her.

"Merry Christmas, Lizzie," he says. "I'm so glad you're here."

* * *

They've left their empty plates abandoned in the kitchen, have moved their conversation to the couch in the living room.

She had almost forgotten what a skillful cook he was, decides she must ask him to give her some lessons soon. He seems more at ease now, has discarded his jacket and draped it over the back of the leather chair in the corner. It's a look she is accustomed to, the black vest in contrast to his crisp white shirt, his watch sticking out of his sleeve.

He excuses himself, tells her he has forgotten something important. When he comes back, he's holding a neatly wrapped package and places it between them.

"What's this?"

"It's a Christmas gift."

"Red, you didn't have to-"

"I know," he interrupts her calmly, reaches out to quickly squeeze her hand in reassurance.

She eyes the present admiringly, turns it around to get a glimpse of each side.

"Did you wrap it yourself?"

"I'm a man of many talents," he tells her with an edge to his voice. "Go ahead. Open it."

She runs her fingers across the paper and carefully begins to remove it. She doesn't know what to expect, a thousand possibilities passing through her mind, a thousand possibilities that don't seem to fit him, and then the paper is gone and she's staring at something stunningly personal, something incredibly valuable.

She understands immediately.

"It's a celestial map. An antique print. Here," he takes her hand and guides her finger to a bright dot close to the middle, "that's Polaris."

She remembers his words so vividly. But it's not about him now. It's about the two of them.

"Our way home," she recalls.

He nods, doesn't miss the change in her phrasing.

"If you ever feel alone, this will remind you that you are not. That I will always be there if you need me."

It means everything.

"Thank you, Red." There's so much she wants to tell him, can't seem to find the right words. "Thank you."

She puts the frame on the coffee table, turns back toward him.

"I actually have something for you, too." She gets up and walks over to one of the bookshelves, retrieves a small package hidden between two encyclopedias.

"You didn't have to-"

"I know."

She reclaims her spot beside him, hands him the gift, watches him mirror her actions. He simply holds it, traces the edges as if in awe, waits for her encouragement.

"You can open it," she instructs softly.

He doesn't react right away, maybe because he wants to savor the moment, maybe because he can't believe she had taken the time to prepare a present for him as well, but he unwraps it with great care and patience, wants it to last.

When he's finished, a book falls into his lap. He smiles when he reads the title.

"It's an early edition of _Mother Courage_. I came across it in a bookstore in New York and thought of you. Remember how you recited parts of it to me? How I was somewhat disappointed in your acting abilities?"

He chuckles at her last comment, still hasn't spoken.

"I actually bought it a while ago. It's been sitting in the drawer of my nightstand for a few months and I was trying to figure out when to give it to you. But I suppose there won't come a better occasion than Christmas."

"It's a treasure, Lizzie." It's sweet and thoughtful, the fact that his picture had come to her mind when she had seen the book. It's overwhelming how she remembers their time together. The little things.

"I couldn't possibly tell you what this means to me," he continues quietly.

He does it because it feels right, because he can't really express his gratitude any other way. He hugs her because something has shifted, because the boundaries are fading, because he needs the contact.

"Thank you," he whispers close to her ear, stays close when he pulls back.

"We truly make a great team," she notes affectionately.

"In every aspect."

* * *

It's close to midnight when he rises from the couch and tells her to close her eyes. She wonders what he's up to, can hear him rummage around behind her. It's a quiet sigh of approval that comes next, the faint crackling of a record, the first soft chord and a familiar voice.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas._

The Judy Garland version has always been her favorite.

_Let your heart be light._

She wonders if he knew, is almost sure he did.

_From now on, our troubles will be out of sight._

She's too focused on the music, doesn't notice how his footsteps come closer, how he moves around the chair to stand in front of her.

„Lizzie?"

She brings herself back to the present then, opens her eyes to meet his. He's holding out his hand for her to take.

„Dance with me?"

* * *

He leads her to the middle of the room, turns off the lights and lets the candles on the tree illuminate the space around them. She seems somewhat tentative when he takes her hand in his, thinks her dancing skills are still a bit modest, but he looks at her with such confidence, such affection, that she feels her insecurity gradually wane. His fingertips press lightly into the small of her back, ghost across the fabric in irregular patterns, pull her closer.

"You're thinking too much," he whispers. "Just follow my lead."

She lets go of her inhibition then, concentrates on the directions of his steps, how he sways them lightly back and forth. She had danced with him once at an embassy, had danced with him again during their escape when he really just wanted to distract her one evening, when the idea seemed ridiculous, when it had almost been cathartic. Maybe it's simply his proximity that mends her wounds in the end. Maybe it's her head leaning against his shoulder and his cheek pressed against her hair. Maybe it's the fact that words would never do it justice.

This feels like home, she thinks. Like things are finally falling into place.

When the song is over, when the needle is lifted from the record, they remain still. She doesn't want to move, doesn't want this moment to end, couldn't have imagined that Christmas would be spent like this after all that had happened. That this was what she had needed all along. Some sort of confirmation, something to erase the last shred of doubt.

He had always watched her so carefully.

She pulls back the slightest bit so she can face him completely, rests her palm on his beating heart.

She's so very close now, the space between them non-existent, can feel him breathe against her, his expression so familiar. She remembers walking down the stairs of the courthouse, finally spotting him across the street, remembers the relief, her pacing steps, the way he had shifted his weight when she approached him. She remembers his eyes. The contentment, the challenge, the warmth, the tenderness. The desire. So very similar to the way he is looking at her now. And he doesn't say a word.

It's not like the embrace they had shared. It's not impulsive.

She takes her time, takes in his features, every infinitesimal movement. The twitch of his cheek.

And then he closes his eyes.

(Much later she'll ask him why. He'll tell her out of self-preservation. That surely this couldn't have been real. Just a cruel trick of the mind.)

It's a gentle kiss. The kind shared by people who love each other, who comfort and protect each other. The kind that's a promise, full of hope and possibility.

It's her hand on his neck, her thumb hovering over a small, round scar.

It's his arm slowly encircling her waist, it's him leaning in, it's the way they fit.

When it ends, they just stare at each other.

A shy smile.

"Merry Christmas, Red."


	5. You Make A Good Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! Thanks for sticking with this fic and leaving comments and kudos. After this, there are two more chapters left. Enjoy!

It's early when she wakes, the faint morning sunlight painting shadows across the walls. She feels rested, refreshed even, something she hasn't experienced in a while, something that had suddenly changed for the better a few days ago when she had finally made a decision. When she had finally taken those last steps to his room.

He's still fast asleep next to her, his chest steadily rising and falling underneath the thick duvet. The nights are cold here, the winter air a bit harsher than in DC, and there's something remarkably innocent and almost child-like about the way he's hiding from the freezing surroundings, his whole body safely covered, his head barely sticking out.

She gets to see him like this now, so very exposed and vulnerable, with all the boundaries between them suddenly gone and the shift in their relationship so significant.

He wakes then, looks back at her with dozy eyes and receives a smile and quick kiss in return.

"Go back to sleep," she tells him softly, moves over to his side of the bed to be closer.

It's the last day of the year.

She thinks it will be a good one.

* * *

It was his expression after the kiss that she'll always remember.

The sudden calmness, the tranquility in his expression. As if he had confessed something, as if the burden of keeping a secret had been lifted.

The rest of the evening had been spent like many others, talking and laughing, with an ease that hadn't been there before, those small loving gestures, the open display of his feelings he had so carefully masked. She had felt lighter, happier, so deeply relieved that she knew the truth now, that everything had turned out just as she had hoped, at times feared, but ultimately yearned for.

The way he had kissed her goodnight. The way her pulse jumped at the contact.

He had told her his story on Christmas Day during a walk through the town. As detailed as he could manage, as complete as he knew. She had reached for his hand and intertwined their fingers about halfway through, had looked down on the ground to hide her emotions, to give him privacy. The pain in his voice palpable, the slight tremble in his fingers unmistakable.

That night she had stayed awake for hours, unable to forget the images he had shared with her, until she had moved across the hall and over his threshold, until she had lain down beside him and held on. Humble attempts at mending his scars. An act of healing.

The next morning she had awoken with his arm around her and a question.

"Would you like to stay for New Year's Eve?"

* * *

"So what's our plan for the day?" she inquires after a while.

"To stay in this bed," he responds sleepily and presses his lips against her hair. "It's awfully cold out there, Lizzie, and it's so wonderfully warm right where we are."

"You make a good point."

"Negotiation comes with the job," he says, and it's lazy and drawn out and much too endearing.

"And confidence, I'm sure."

"And confidence."

"Especially when you ask me out on trips in my office," she notes, her amusement quite evident now.

"I'll admit I was a bit nervous."

"Because you assumed I would say no?"

"Because I wasn't entirely sure you would say yes."

She doesn't miss the bashful tone in his voice, wants to take it from him, wants to tell him he shouldn't worry. She isn't going anywhere.

"How about we get up and spend some time out by the bay. Maybe get some lobster rolls," she offers, leans in to kiss him. "I'll even make breakfast first, Red."

"You make a good point," he mumbles, is well aware he doesn't stand a chance.

Victory is all hers.

"I have a way with swaying criminals." A whisper against his lips. "Comes with the job."

* * *

It's minutes until the new year and he hands her his coat and a scarf.

"Put this on, Lizzie. There's something I want to show you."

"But it's almost midnight."

"Precisely."

He leads her toward the terrace and grabs a blanket on the way out, puts its over her shoulders to keep her warm.

"You're never getting this coat back, you know that, right?" she remarks as she walks over to the railing, urges him to join her with a quick gesture.

"A small price to pay."

She smiles and leans against his side, watches the flashing lights of the fishing boats anchored somewhere in the distance.

"So what exactly are we doing out here?"

"We wait."

"Still full of secrets."

"A rather difficult habit to break."

It's not what she had expected. To spend New Year's Eve like _this_ , this quiet, this intimate, this comfortable, without exaggerated celebrations and sentimentalism. Simply the two of them. So beautifully private.

He makes sure she's not getting cold, promises it won't be long now.

She can hear muffled music, a crowd initiating a countdown. The local festivities up the road.

Mere seconds.

And then, finally and in perfect unison, she sees colors rising to the sky across the water, fireworks illuminating the black canvas around them. It's breathtaking, the vibrant spectacle. It's perfect.

"Happy New Year, Lizzie," he tells her and for once she's certain it will be. That she can leave the past behind.

She waits for just a moment, wants to memorize every detail and store it away safely in her mind, the familiar tilt of his head, the fondness in his eyes, his fingertips tracing the lines in her palm, the way it tickles.

"Happy New Year, Red," she says and kisses him, sweetly, longingly, with just a bit of amazement at the future ahead of them, the words left unsaid so perceptible to both, so very tangible through their actions.

His breathing remains a bit too heavy when it all stops.

"So what now?" she asks.

"Well," he begins, plays with the buttons on her coat, "we could return to my original plan."

"Which was?"

She can practically see his pupils darken, the spark of mischief.

"Staying in bed."


	6. Very, Very Special

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the delay- real life got in the way. I hope this chapter makes up for the wait. The final chapter will be the epilogue. 
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments. The feedback on this fic has been incredible and I'm very grateful. Enjoy!

The bed is empty when he opens his eyes. Empty and cold.

He stretches and gets up, puts on socks and his robe and checks his watch for the time. It's much too early, really, by vacation standards anyway. He should still be sleeping, he thinks, and she should be there with him, next to him, close and safe and happy. He wonders what made her change their routine.

Looking out the window, he finds her on the porch in the same spot they had occupied last night to watch the fireworks, his coat once again enveloping her and his responding smile immediate. It's all hers, a souvenir, a makeshift blanket, whatever she needs.

They'll be on the plane mere hours from now.

For once, he can't predict what the future will look like.

* * *

"Coffee?"

She startles and turns around, relaxes as she sees him move towards her. He hasn't gotten dressed yet, she notes, his usual attire nowhere to be found. She could get used to this, these lazy mornings, the luxury of domesticity.

"Yes, thank you."

He hands her the cup and watches her profile from the side as he has done so many times before. There's something contemplative about her demeanor, the ease that had settled between them over the past couple of days strangely missing and replaced by something much more difficult to decipher. Something like apprehension.

He waits for her to start, is convinced she'll confide in him eventually.

"We're leaving today," she begins after a few minutes.

"Yes."

"What happens when we get back?" She turns to him with questioning eyes, looks almost wistful now.

"You go back to _chasing_ criminals and I'll go back to _being_ a criminal."

"That's not exactly what I meant."

He knows that, too. Knows that deflection isn't what she wants or expects from him. Calmly, he takes her mug and places it on the ground, steps behind her and encircles her waist with his arms.

"Well, there's a book someone very special gave to me as a gift that will demand most of my attention."

She relaxes against him, covers his hands with her own.

"Very special, huh?"

His breathing tickles her hair. She can feel him press a kiss to the very spot.

"Very, very special."

He's quiet for a moment, hopes that time will stand still just a bit longer. He doesn't take it for granted, these last two weeks spent together, waking up next to her, the trust she has offered him, the intimacy, her skin against his, any of it. All she has been willing to give. It couldn't last forever, no matter how much he had wished for it. The formal boundaries still in place. The agent and her asset.

Her choice to make.

"Whatever you decide, Lizzie, you'll have me. You'll always have me."

He hopes she believes him.

He hopes this will last.

* * *

They spend the rest of the day like most others, share breakfast at the local diner and take a last walk through the small town. He had rescheduled their flight after their conversation on the porch, had wanted to grant them a few more hours, the advantages of a private plane so wonderfully convenient at times.

She doesn't want to leave, it's really that simple, but she's somehow certain she'll visit this place again. That maybe this could become _their_ tradition, spending the holidays by the bay, decorating the tree together, sitting by the fireplace. She couldn't think of a more perfect way to spend Christmas. To ring in the new year.

It's late in the afternoon when their bags are packed and he locks the door behind them, when she catches a final glimpse of the coast, when he intertwines their fingers in the backseat of the car, not shying away now but offering comfort, when they board the plane shortly after.

She chooses the seat next to him this time, doesn't even think about an alternative, and then, much like a habit, much like a bond between them, much like someone who once tried to escape reality under very different circumstances, she rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes.

* * *

"Lizzie?"

She nods against him in silent confirmation, doesn't want to wake just yet.

"Have you made your pick?" His voice is quiet and secretive, a whisper like that of a skillful storyteller.

She doesn't know what he means, lifts her head to look at him.

"Our next destination," he continues.

Oh.

She remembers his promise from their last flight, _next time,_ is so relieved suddenly that the offer still stands, that they could do this again, the disguise of a mission, maybe, if people asked the wrong questions, an investigation that would require both their presence. _A plan for the future._

"How about Norway?"

It seems an odd choice, certainly not what he had expected.

"Why Norway?" he inquires slightly amused.

She smiles and leans back against his side.

"Lots of remote cabins by the sea."

* * *

It's late evening when they arrive at her apartment.

They step out of the elevator and he carries her bags down the hall, watches as she unlocks the door and leads him inside. They both seem somewhat hesitant, waiting for the other to take the next step, to find the right words.

He wants to lighten the mood a little, takes off his coat and urges her to turn around.

She feels the weight softly settling on her shoulders, feels him smoothen her hair over the collar.

"I think this belongs to you," he says and spins her so she's facing him again. He makes a few more adjustments until he appears to be content with his work, kisses her gently. "Thank you for accompanying me."

"You're welcome," she responds, her tone heavy-hearted.

"And thank you for the book." Another kiss. Longer this time.

"My pleasure."

She wishes she could tell him the truth. That she doesn't want him to leave. That she doesn't want to go back to a life before all this, _without_ all this. That she's scared.

That she loves him.

"I think I'll take my leave now," he interrupts her train of thought. "Let you unpack."

He presses his lips to hers again, can't really help it, and moves towards the door.

"Goodnight, Lizzie," he adds before reaching for the handle.

It's then that something ignites within her. That something shifts. It's then that she realizes she _can_ tell him these things, that he deserves to hear them. That they can figure it out together.

It's then that she stops him.

"Red?"

He pauses, takes a deep breath and looks at her.

Her eyes give her away. A bit of hope. An invitation.

"Yes?"

She thinks this will work.

Somehow, against all odds and boundaries and rules, despite the pain they've experienced and the paths they've chosen, this will work just fine.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?"


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, folks! I hope this epilogue does this story justice. This fic has been a real pleasure to write. Thank you for all the comments and kudos! Enjoy :)

"We're almost there. Keep your eyes closed."

She tightens the grip on his hand, doesn't want to trip over whatever might be in the way, but he's careful, leads her past obstacles and roots sticking out of the ground, his arm safely around her waist.

She doesn't know what he has planned or where they are headed. They had gotten off the plane mere hours ago, another trip to Norway, as he had promised. It had quickly become their favorite destination after she had first uttered the thought on their return flight from Maine one and a half years ago, that private jet of his taking them over the Atlantic whenever their schedule granted them an opportunity, far away from responsibilities and obligations. A bit of privacy. The greatest luxury they could afford.

He stops her then, moves behind her and places a kiss on her shoulder, the spark of excitement barely concealed in his whisper.

"Open your eyes, Lizzie."

* * *

He did stay for dinner that night. He stayed for breakfast, too.

It had been a simple transition, much simpler than she had anticipated. The domesticity, his frequent visits, her stays at his safe houses, all these things had required no second thought. They saw each other whenever they wanted to. They saw each other as much as possible.

She loved talking to him. To find out about his childhood, his family, his favorite teacher in elementary school, what music he had grown up with, what his mother was like, what jazz clubs he had frequented across the world. She loved the way his eyes would light up whenever he recounted fond memories, the way his hand would seek out hers whenever a story became more difficult to tell.

It took him about a month to fill in all the gaps that remained. The occurrence of the fire, cruel coincidences, broken trust, the scars on his back that her fingertips had discovered in such detail, that her touch had mended so beautifully. Their past a completed puzzle now and their bond unbreakable. She had kissed him gently that night, had told him that she loved him. A quick remark, the words so naturally leaving her lips, the truth so obvious. His expression so content when he had finally fallen asleep.

It wasn't always easy and they hadn't expected it to be. The suspicions, the questions from everyone around them and the perils they couldn't escape, their share of close calls, they knew it would always be a part of their connection, this was the life they had chosen, but they had both been so skilled in prevailing, so proficient in surviving. One step ahead at any given time. A great team.

Her favorite thing were the mornings. When they would stay in bed longer than planned, sharing secrets, staying close, when his fingers would tickle her skin and she would laugh against him, _I need to get to work_ and _I'll let you know another blacklister if you stay five more minutes_ , how she would always let him convince her, the alternative so much better than solving cases, warm and comfortable and safe, she would always pick him, whatever the circumstances. To start the day knowing that she'll come back home to him later.

His favorite thing were the evenings. When they would sit next to each other on the couch, reading books, listening to records, when her head would rest on his shoulder and she would slowly drift off, _let's go upstairs_ and _I'm comfortable right where I am_ , how he would always stay awake just to listen to her breathing, every night like the first, intimate and honest and perfect, he never took it for granted, he couldn't. To fall asleep knowing that he'll wake up next to her.

They spent the following Christmas at his house in Maine, danced to Judy Garland like they had done the first time, spent New Year's bundled up in blankets on the porch. He took her back during the spring, wanted her to see the bay when nature finally awoke from its lingering hibernation, the town and its surroundings much more spirited during the new season. He introduced her to old acquaintances of his, people he had frequently come across over the years, fishermen he had befriended, and she would watch him sometimes, so perfectly at peace with the world, would smile at him from the side and lean against him. He would always kiss her hair in response. She would always hope he never breaks the habit.

And then, one morning over breakfast, he had told her about a surprise. That she should be ready to leave in two days. That he has something to show her.

And just this once, she had no idea what to expect.

* * *

"So this belongs to—?"

"It belongs to us, Lizzie."

"It belongs to us?"

"Yes. I bought it for us."

"You bought a house? For us?"

"I'm beginning to question the decision but yes, Lizzie, I bought a house. A cabin by the bay so we can escape the dreary interior of the Post Office whenever we so desire. It's ours."

"Red, this is—"

Wonderful. The beginning of their future. Everything she ever wanted.

But she doesn't finish. Instead, she walks up the stairs to the porch, lets her hand glide over the wooden railing, takes in the large windows, the small bench in the corner, just big enough for two, takes in the view over the water, the mountains on the horizon, how the sun bathes the facade in the most perfect shade of color.

And then, with a deep breath and her heart racing with happiness, she turns and finds him standing in the same spot, his head tilted slightly to the side. And she holds out her hand.

"Show me around?"

They'll talk later. About what this means to her, to them, and how grateful she is. How she cannot wait to spend time here with him. All the little discoveries along the way, the memories waiting to be made.

But for now, she simply lets him close the distance, feels their fingers intertwine, watches him unlock the door.

The words so sweet when he leads her inside.

"Welcome home."


End file.
